Complacency reigns here, too, on a Monday, a holiday, an I have a dream day, and I dream of more noble things, of equality and justice, and persistent integrity, and I have plans for the day. But right now I dream you, here lying in bed beside me so late on a weekday morning. It is a stolen day, the luxury of one more weekend day to lie in late, to roll back in against your belly, your sleeping fingers curling my hair, pushing it from my forehead, my ears, my neck, you hard against my back as I feel your movements more exact as you awaken, more intentional as the morning grows later.
The clock ticks. I reach for the lamp switch, now gasping, electric, your fingers dancing, your lips softly setting me ablaze beneath these sheets, resistance transformed into ardent need to have you not just closer, but fused to me, thirst realized now unquenchable. I dreamed I could survive without water once, and now I drink. I swim. I could drown in it, but I won’t.
The coffee is dark, sweet, milk caramelized in the steel pitcher left too long with the steam boiling it, froth spilling out while you kiss me madly, once more, twice. I grab the pitcher, hot milk everywhere now, the oranges in the Wedgwood bowl beside the sink a still-life. I contemplate, licking the milk from my fingers, reaching for an orange. It is perfect, the milk cooling and thick, the cream whipped to put on the coffee, with the grated orange peel, the sharp sweetness as you reach beneath my peignoir now, yes I did wear it, as you squeeze my sore nipples, and the cream melts, the orange zest floating in the coffee as you push into me again, again. Yes, green birds and temptation of flesh, the desire for here, now, the world so glorious as I think of why I dream, why I fight, what wishes we all must have, what we all must know.